Mommy’s Car or Toys R Us Boutique?

I am no neat freak, just ask my mother. However, a new trend has started among my children that is turning my car from the grocery getter to a traveling toy chest.

I’m not sure how this kind of thing starts. I think it’s a compromise made in an effort to take less than 10 minutes from door to driving. “Can I take a Wii game?” “No.” “Can I take this very small lego man that I will cry after losing?” “No.” “MOM, can I please take Moosee?” “Sure, whatever it takes to get out of this door and into the car.”

So, now my car has become the resting place of many past-favorite toys. Past, because once they are lost in the pit of the car, they are out of sight and out of mind. There seems to be a necessity among my children to bring a bit of home with them into the car. Perhaps it’s a transitional item that helps them as they step into the great big world. Perhaps it’s a desire to have something that brother or sister doesn’t. Perhaps it’s a new way to stall the ever-impending reverse down the driveway.

Whatever it is, it’s a mess. So at least once a week, I demand that each child, particularly Sam, take his backpack, McDonald’s puppy, dirty socks, crayon drawing, and empty cup out of the car and into the house. “But Mommmmm,” I hear in the distance, “I can’t carry all of these things by myself.”

“Well, you carried it all out here, so figure it out. Maybe it will take more than one trip.”

Despite the messy process of cleaning up the mess, they are no less motivated to eliminate the carriage of extra items into the car. I think the only possible remedy is removal of all toys from their possession or the removal of their hands. Neither seems acceptable, so I’ll just start budgeting that additional 15 minutes on Thursday nights to clean it out. Again.

Now, I’m not sure who I can blame for the mess outside of the car….

Me and My Big Mouth

I was feeling pretty sure of myself last week, however, when we had a special speaker talk to us about discipline. The speaker had read a book called Don’t Make Me Count to Three, and was sharing her experiences trying it out. We all laughed and lamented the joys of being the lead enforcer around the house, but all in all I was feeling pretty good about myself. My kids, though strong-willed (Kate) and sometimes a little too smart for their own good, are generally such good kids. So in control. I even told an example about how I just talked to Sam about how we handled an argument a few months ago, and he took it all in and we decided to make some changes. Problem solved.

I went home that night and thought about how to incorporate some of the ideas she had, like working on the root issue instead of reacting only to the specific event. For example, instead of only teaching kids to take turns with the Wii remote that just got thrown across the room, you use scripture to talk about how people are more important than the things that we have and how God wants us to love each other. Good stuff.

As the aura from the evening’s good discussion was just beginning to fade, my son lit into a huge tantrum about bedtime. Huge. Not only did he cry and throw a fit and say he didn’t want to go, he flat out REFUSED to go to bed. After a few minutes, my patience went out the window and I banished myself to my room mid-sentence to cool down before my yelling awoke Kate. I could tell you the blow-by-blow, but let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the textbook example that was given at our session.

I will give myself credit for ending fights well, and we always apologize and hug and talk about how to do better next time. So I went to bed feeling silly about my professed successful discipline methods, but no less secure in my parenting.

Queue the rest of the week: Sam has gone into a complete testing period where he wants to see just exactly where the boundaries are and see how far back he can move them. He has tried every technique in his arsenal, and I’ve used all of mine. The result? Frustration, exhaustion, and embarrassment. Who was I to think that I was some sort of parenting success story? I was blessed with good kids. I am blessed with a God who cares about them and cares about me, and who I believe can undo any of the damage I happen to do to them. Am I the success, or is God?

After a week of enforced bedtime, time spent in the “safe spot” at school, and a little help from Dad, Sam is starting to morph back into the well-behaved child I know. I am glad to know that he’s unleashing some of his craziness on his teacher as well, and it’s not solely for my benefit. (I told Stuart that Sam’s “not listening” trait was inherited from HIS side of the family.) I think I’ll live to fight another day.

One of the “experienced” mothers in the group asked last Wednesday, “Isn’t this all kind of exhausting?” Oh yeah.

Enough growing already!

As a parent, I feel constantly torn between the two extremes of looking forward to my kids being older and keeping them young while I still can. I very firmly do not want to have any more babies. That is clearer and clearer all the time (and probably warrants a bad mom post of its own). But something about Kate’s 2nd birthday today makes me think about how quickly the time passes and how easily I forget the little moments that make little ones so special.

The parent mantra is all about helping your children grow up. Grow into better, complete, responsible individuals, contributors to society who remember their manners and have enough ambition to move out someday and live a life of their own. All of that is very good. My friends with school-aged children can take them to movies, on roller coasters, and drop them off at parties without batting an eye or taking an extra change of clothes.

Growing up means great things for Kate. She has friendships, sleepovers, catfights, good books, first kisses, and meaningful goodbyes ahead. She will grow bigger, stronger, smarter, and braver (heaven help me). She’ll have her own dreams to replace those I have for her, and she’ll impose her strong will on someone other than just me.

But being little had its moments too. Kate was a laid-back, happy baby who was not at all colicky or high maintenance. She survived a rough bout of stomach flu that put her in the hospital, but bonded mother and daughter like no bedtime ritual ever has. She competed valiantly with Sam—wanting to be just like her big brother and run as fast, build as tall, and sing as loud as he does. She wants to leave her own mark on things. Literally. She basically potty-trained herself (praise to God). She’s had a great first 2 years.

So this mama has to get over the growing and remember to embrace every day, every stage, for the joys that it brings. When Kate wants to rock a little longer, or Sam wants to crawl in my bed and cuddle, I want to remember that these days are short and take every snuggle I can get.

Who's The Boss?

Remember that show in the 80s-- Who's the Boss? Where Angela, a divorced mom raising a somewhat confused and off son hires Tony the ultimate housekeeper to live in with her family. Who's the boss? Well, at home it was really Tony. That's the catch-- she hired him, but he's in charge. Get it?

Well, I'm wondering where you go to order one of these so-called bosses for your home. Not the pint-sized, teenaged ones who think they know so much, but the Tony Macelli, vacuum the plaid curtains, fix dinner and slip in a little "How you doin?" every once in a while kind. Maybe it's just me, but it seems like being the boss at home is really less desireable a job than it's made up to be.

It first occurred to me a couple of years ago, when every day I would look down at the leaves that my dog was tracking in and think, "Man, that's annoying." "Oh, it's still there." "Isn't anyone going to pick that up?!!" That's when it hit me: no. No one is going to pick that up except for little old me.

Since then, it's been a down-hill slope of responsibility and multi-tasking. Picking up the groceries, the dirty socks, the kids from preschool. A lot of picking up involved. Who else but a mom can handle walking on a treadmill, reading the book-club novel, overseeing computer time and watching Dancing with the Stars at the same time? Not to mention the fact that the dryer and dishwasher are probably all running at upstairs at the same time. It makes me tired just thinking about it.

As a teenager, you fight for control over your life. Control is seen as supreme-- eat what you want, stay out as long as you want, go out with whomever you want. But we forget about the other side of the control coin-- responsibility. With control means responsibility for consequences, good and bad. It's not so much the good ones that bother us--getting paid for working is nice, and children are a nice byproduct of marriage-- it's the negative ones that are hard. Owning my home means raking the leaves. Eating and making what I want for dinner means washing dishes. Buying the clothes, car, furniture I want means making more money or eliminating that trip to the spa next week.

It occurs to me that the American Dream is not necessarily the responsibility, but the control. Lots of resources (time, money, stuff), and limited consequences. The problem is, other than during campaign season, those two things are rarely said to co-exist.

So, if you can think of a Tony who would be willing to come take all the responsibility at my house, I'd happily keep the control.

EPA: Earned Potty Average

I told my husband last night that I think motherhood stress can be judged by a new statistic: Earned Potty Average. Its a count of the average number of times you go to the potty (there's that word again) in one hour. Use the following scale to determine daily craziness:

Less than 1: Big deal. I mean, my co-worker goes more than that on his own. You either have kids in diapers, which require entirely different statistics, or you've graduated to having potty soloists.

1-2: Average average. Maybe you have a preschooler that needs help wiping or a short daughter that can't reach the paper towels, but you're time committed is minimal. You're on your way to graduation!

2-3: Potty training is in season. You're definitely in there often enough to get to know the full lay of the land. Do you have to sing or read a book? Bonus points for that. You're probably even making a couple of unnecessary trips a day. Maybe a separate ratio should be tallyed for successful to unsuccessful trips. The lower the ratio, the more likely it is that we're eating out for dinner tonight. And don't ask why.

3-4: So sorry. At this level, you either have multiple potty trainers (twins, close-in-age children), or need to consult a doctor about potential bladder problems. I can't even imagine this level of potty trips, much less gather enough patience, encouraging words, or books to make those trips enjoyable. You probably need to consider investing in one of those blow-up portable potty seats a stranger told me about yesterday-- then little joey can go anywhere anytime! (As long as he can hold it long enough for you to blow up the seat, add the liner, and find a hidden place to put it.)

Oh, the drama.

Stupid Potty

I admit it. I hate potty training. I mean, it seems like a really good idea-- no more diaper changing: whee! A child who can take care of their own business seems like a true accomplishment.

That's the rub right there, really: no newly potty-trained child is really taking care of their own business. It requires you, the designated responsible party, to remind them to go, join them in the bathroom, wipe, and wash hands. Not to mention the book-reading while perched precariously on the side of the bath tub. The problem is, potty-trained is actually more high maintenance than untrained for quite some time.

Even the word "potty" sounds stupid. Yet, it's one of those fine examples of parenting vocabulary that has a way of slipping itself into my adult life. As in, "Excuse me, I am really enjoying this meeting about the resuscitation of the economy, but I need to use the potty."

So, even though I do want my children to become productive self-pottying members of society, I dread every step of the process required to get them there. Every accident is not only an inconvenience, but also a signal of parenting failure. It has nothing to do with the particular child who is actually going to the potty (or not); it has everything to do with mom. All the other moms look at you like, "Oh, well she started too soon" or "she's obviously not following-through on the program" or "she's definitely not using the Dr. Phil plan." It's all yet another opportunity to match up my own personal potty-training skills with the others and see who comes out on top.

Therefore, I will continue to hate potty-training until the line of true self-sufficiency is crossed. In an ideal world, I would wake up one day and find both children perfectly dry and ready to go in their Buzz Lightyear or Princess undies. Until that day comes, I'm a hater.

Away... and liking it

I slipped away into the KCI terminal, glancing back at my little lady in tears in the back seat of Grandma and Granddads car. And I left anyway.

As if that weren't bad enough, I enjoyed it. I had a great time in Vegas, spa-ing at the Bellagio (jealous much?), eating extremely tasty yet expensive food, sleeping in a big bed and controlling the shades by remote. Stuart left work on Thursday and we jetted away to scenic Reno (um, no) and enjoyed two days together at the Reno Air Races.

Do you know what kind of trouble exists in the great big kidless world? Well, more than I experienced, I'm sure, but I did indulge in some simple joys. Silence. Hand-holding (the grown-up type). Waking up to an alarm clock (okay, that's not too joyous). Shopping AND trying things on. Even if I didn't need them. Or think they would fit. Eating whenever we wanted.

Ah, but here comes the rub: I couldn't indulge without noticing all the little almost-two-year-old girls riding in strollers with their moms at the outlet mall. Or the boys checking out the airplanes and having shirts signed by the pilots.

The moral: You can leave town, but the ties remain.

I was totally floored by a story on Good Morning America (another of my childless pleasures) about a woman who left her family for a writing conference 7 years ago and never came back. Abandoned her husband and 6 children, leaving them penniless and the 14-year-old daughter to sacrifice her life for mommyhood. How does that happen? How can she walk away without seeing her kids faces in the streets of London, or checking out the kids clothing in a catalog? How do you take the savings, knowing your kids are left destitute?

No matter how independent I want to be, or how fun it is to be childless for a weekend, I can't imagine pushing away the shoestrings tying me to my two little bundles of fun.